Few blues musicians bear the burden of history as heavily as Buddy Guy. Along with fellow west-siders Magic Sam and Otis Rush, Guy stormed onto the Chicago scene in the late 50s with a searing, high-voltage guitar attack augmented by tormented lyrics, a passionate vocal delivery, and an energy level far more intense that that of the more traditional south-side men. That style, soon characterized as west-side blues, was the style most admired and copied in the 1960s by young white bluesmen such as Eric Clapton and Jimmy Page, and was the primal influence behind the music of Jimi Hendrix.
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On the other hand, it must be admitted that there was plenty of evidence at Cotton Chicago to support many of the charges leveled against him. All too often, Guy treats ballads as necessary nuisances to be endured before digging into the metallic onslaughts that follow jarringly on the heels of even his most tender and melodic solos. On a song like “Fever,” for instance, he has demonstrated an ability to turn the jet down to a smoldering, low flame and deliver blues of unmatched sensuality and power; but at this gig, he approached it like any other, medium-slow ballad, starting off gently with a series of lightly articulated runs. and gradually building up to the inevitable frenetic climax.
There were other problems as well. Guy’s famous onstage ebullience slipped over the line into self-parody on more than one occasion, most notably with embarrassing arm flapping during “Stormy Monday,” as he sang the verse, “The eagle files on Friday.” And when he cranked up the volume and fired off his endless exploding riffs, all screaming treble and chaotic note clusters with seemingly no pattern, direction, or reason except pure noise, one could easily understand why many who love the subtle soulfulness of classic Chicago blues have written Guy off.
It was here as well that the depth of his genius as a guitarist became obvious. Slow, smooth bends, writhing sensuously over and beneath the melody line, were interspersed with fleet, spidery runs the length of the fretboard, brushing softly against the listener’s ears like breath. Guy fused his much-vaunted technical proficiency with his profound blues feeling to create a music of sensitivity and wonder, even as he sang Taylor’s wry lyrics and engaged the room in playful call-and-response antics. And when it was all over, he flashed his shy, dimple-cheeked smile at the crowd, almost as if he were embarrassed at having allowed himself a moment of such intimacy. The rapport he establishes with an audience during times like this is a marvel to behold; he works a crowd as well as anyone still performing, and unlike his contemporary Junior Wells, he seldom lets his ego, or his propensity for vocal tricks and falsetto sound effects, get in the way of the music.
